


Paintings

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire draws something. It scares him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paintings

Grantaire was more than a bit upset when he stepped into his small apartment, kicking off his shoes and heading straight for the kitchen. There, he tugged out a bottle of whiskey and drank straight from it before heading for his art room with no more than a few grumbled words.

His small apartment had only two rooms; a larger master bedroom and another, smaller room for anything else Grantaire would want. Rather than sleep in the master room like anybody else, he moved his bed and converted it into an art room, taking the smaller room for himself. 

When he stumbled into the room, he knew to be careful. He stepped over and around drying paintings that sat on the floor, and moved to his easel. 

He did nothing but drink and paint throughout the night, entirely uncertain of what he was doing until it was finished. 

Then, he called Enjolras. 

“Grantaire, are you quite aware of the time?” Enjolras grumbled the moment he picked up his obnoxiously ringing phone. 

“E, I painted something. You need to see it.” 

“Are you drunk? R, it’s one in the morning. I’m not leaving my bed, let alone my house. Go to sleep.” 

“No, E,” Grantaire argued, truly sounded scared. “You have to see this.”   
\--  
“This better be good,” Enjolras said as he slid out of his coat. His hair was sleep-mussed, most of it having fallen out of the braid it had once been in at the nape of his neck. 

Grantaire didn’t reply, only offered Enjolras his half-empty bottle to the leader. 

He hesitated a moment before accepting it, taking a long swig of the amber liquid before following Grantaire to his art room. 

Enjolras had to stay close behind Grantaire to ensure he didn’t step on a painting as he entered. When they reached the easel on which the painting dried, he looked up at it. 

It looked liked a portrait, taken between high-up pieces of furniture. Enjolras could make out a chair, and a ladder. It was the barricade they discussed at the last meeting. But it was what was behind the furniture that struck him. 

It was a window, the very window of the cafe they’d been in just the night before. It was worn now, bullet holes covering and splintering the old wood. 

Hanging out that window, was a blonde man in a red coat. His shirt had a blooming red stain of blood on it. It was a beautiful work, and Enjolras knew who the dead man was. Him.

He had to take a step back, feeling terrified. “Why have you done this? Why are you showing me?” 

Grantaire shook his head. “I didn’t know what it was until I was finished with it.” There was a long pause. “It scares me, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras finally moved his eyes to Grantaire and pointed to the painting. “If this is what is to come, let it. I’m better a martyr than a coward.” 

Grantaire shook his head. “No, you cannot let this happen.” His voice sounded very small. Scared. “Please, Enjolras. I don’t want to go to your funeral.” 

“It is your decision whether you wish to join me or not.” Enjolras continued, ignoring the remark. He pushed the bottle back into Grantaire’s hands and made his way out of the man’s apartment.

In the end, Grantaire went. He hid away the painting and helped Enjolras.

He had to.

**Author's Note:**

> There it is! What'd you all think?


End file.
